


laces

by renwrites



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 11:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6077604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renwrites/pseuds/renwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had started as a way to punish him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	laces

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic ever and english isn't my first language, so if you have any (constructive) criticism please comment!! (or just comment, that would be great too).

It had started as a way to punish him.

No, he thought, acutely aware of the slave moving behind him in the room. He turned his attention to the mirror, and his own blue eyes stared at him through heavy eyelashes. Punish was not the right word. Laurent had wanted be in control and wanted him to suffer, even if a little, even if it was nothing next to what he really wanted to do. He had wanted him embarrassed, humiliated, broken, _dead_ , and that... That was a small thing, to serve him every night, but it was, he knew, it was all he could do.

His uncle had tied his hands, but Laurent still had his teeth.

So he had waited, and watched in silence every time Damianos of Akielos, his brother's killer, had fumbled with the laces of his jacket, hands clumsy and untrained. Laurent remembered well his touch and the wave of disgust and anger it had sent through his body in the first times it had happened; he had half-expected Damianos to feel it too - it had been so strong and so intense he could taste it on his tongue, bitter and repulsive -, but the barbarian had remained quiet, focused on his work. Laurent had then concentrated on his breathing, his eyes moving discreetly to Damianos's back before going to the floor. He couldn't lose control again.

The barbarian had never done this, of course; being the Prince of Akielos, the hero of Marlas, Damianos was a warrior born and bred, and a royal. Slaves served him. He didn't serve anyone, not until the bastard's betrayal, and it was that change, and that futile mask he wore – _Damen_ – what pleased and what, at the same time, angered him the most. He loved to see the great Damianos reduced to a servant, loved to see how he was so not made for the role and hated, _hated_ , how he thought he could fool him. How he thought he wouldn’t know the face of the man who had killed his brother and ruined his life.

Laurent knew his face. He had waited years to tear it apart, but he had been impatient and had gotten only his back instead. And now he had to wait. But he _knew_ how to wait.

But Damianos had learned to serve him fast. Laurent soon found out that one of the times he stood next to the akielon when they were both alone, his hands moving with agility through Laurent's clothing. Damianos was smart, not only because of that, of course, and that, he thought bitterly, was something he couldn't forgive, because it was something he had to admire, like he had done with Auguste. Admiring how determined he was, how powerful he could be. He wondered if that was what had killed his brother.   

"Leave," he had almost said after they were done then, before remembering that he couldn't, because the barbarian slept in his tent now that they were away from Arles. He had arranged it so the slave would be uncomfortable - Laurent knew he hated him, he knew his presence would bother him - and his own discomfort in being near him was a small price to pay for that, but now, as he just walked away to the other side of the tent, feeling caged, the air stuck in his throat, he knew he would have given anything to be alone.

But against everything Laurent had expected, he had become used to it, and the barbarian had to, or so it seemed. He had become used to how Damianos towered over him, much like Auguste had done, and part of him resented how alike they were, how much like Auguste Damen was when he would never be. Auguste had been golden and pale where Damianos was brown and dark, but they were both made of the same material; steel where Laurent was sharp glass, easy smiles and serious honesty where he was cold glares and cunning schemes. Summer nights when he was a winter morning.

He felt something for that too, for what they were; for Auguste, when he let sadness overcome him, it was the crushing realization that his brother wouldn’t come back, and that he was alone. In these moments the pain was so great it was like his own flesh was being torn apart, and he couldn’t breathe.

And then, when the worst of the sadness was gone, it was the overwhelming protectiveness and happiness that came with the memories of the moments they had spent together. Those were worth even the pain of how much he missed him.

But when it came to Damianos he wasn't sure if it was ugly, painful envy, that old desire of being stronger, faster, of being the warrior his father had wanted him to – or if it was longing. If it was wanting him, as awful as it was.

The latter scared him, and so he ignored it.

Damianos's fingers went to his shoulder and he forced himself back to reality. Laurent faced the mirror without really seeing it. No wave of disgust and anger spread through his body now in response to his touch. It was still there, the hate, sitting inside of him as if waiting for the right moment to bite, but it didn't lash out against the prince-killer like it had done months ago. It had grown... soft. Fat and lazy. A tamed beast.

It unsettled him.

"Laurent?"

A pause. Damianos's brown eyes watched him from the mirror's reflection. Laurent met his stare. Had he done something different from usual? He hadn't been paying attention.

_He hadn't been paying attention._

Laurent let out a slow breath. "Yes?"

Damianos held his eyes for one more moment before turning his attention to his jacket's laces. "Nothing." He went back to work.

After a few more minutes Damianos took away the jacket and then his white shirt was the only thing between his skin and the night air. Damianos's fingers brushed just slightly against the thin fabric just above Laurent's shoulder blade and there it was, the new, warm sensation spreading through his skin, the ghost of a shiver. Laurent closed his eyes briefly and allowed himself to feel it before stepping away and turning to Damianos. "Go fetch Jord," he said, his voice as calm as ever. The akielon gave him a puzzled look. He had talked to Jord earlier, and he didn't have anything else to say to him now, not really. He just needed some time alone to get over the fact his brother's murderer's touch didn't disgust him anymore; that now he wanted it, _craved_ it.

He needed to think.

When Damianos left, Laurent turned to the mirror. His blue eyes stared back at him and in them he saw just one thing: doubt. His breath hitched. He didn't doubt anything.

Laurent's fingertips traced the place Damianos of Akielos had touched him and he couldn't help the mix of desire, respect and hope that warmed his chest. He suffocated it, but it was there - and now, it couldn't be killed.


End file.
